221B
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: Two hundred and twenty-one words. Last word beginning with the letter "B".
1. Crying

I've defeated Moriarty's men. I've killed Moran. And I can see what I've been fighting for all along. Their safety. Yet...

As I sit on the curb of an abandoned apartment strip, with my hair chopped, dyed a disgusting light-brown shade... With the hoodie I pried off the dead druggie a day ago on my head, and dried sweat, tears, definite blood... My eyes begin to hurt and burn.

I have cried before. However, I've done alot of pretending in my time and having the reality of a realistic weep overtake my torso into spasmatic loss of breath, it scares me. There is that glisten in my emotionless eyes that should not be shed in a place like this.

Here, everyone is considered an enemy despite me getting rid of the direct ones. This thuggish wonderland won't wait and see who you are before putting that metallic bullet somewhere in your frontal lobe.

I hear my chokes get louder yet. Because I've realized my machinery ways. The talent I put in my statuesque face when called upon for emotional response. I am finding myself in points I never thought I'd see... My capacity for love and hate and everything in between.

And I will only weep more because I said, "Good bye".


	2. The Bed

Drums of blood beating through my chest as his cock smoothes past that one spectacular place. His eagerly squeezing hands circling my hips, encouraging those quick, tight bounces of my weight. The wetness of not only his spit strung from my mouth and falling onto my chest, but the slickness of the lubricant settled around his dick from carelessness.

"Just... Please." He begs beneath me, struggling up a rhythm that's much too fast and hurried, thump after thump, yet just what we need. Why does he beg?

I say nothing as I grip into his hand and shoo them away, splaying my palms and weight on his chest. Curving my hips, his cock a centimeter from popping out, and I sit down forcefully. I do this a few more times before loosing memory of just what happened next.

Waking hours later... Sweaty, warm, full of what I'd expect, being spooned, I turn around. John's face looks just as tired, easy to deduce he woke up not long before me.

"What did we just do?" He laughs into my arm wrapping under his head. His lower half is covered now, mine as well, and I thank him for the kindness with a smile back.

"Sherlock, really." His hand roams for mine entwining our fingers.

I smirk, "Ruined my bed."


	3. Hamish

"There's a baby in your arms." John says somewhat confused and baffled.

"Hope you don't mind." I say handing the near ten pound bundle over and proceed to other tasks.

"I hope the mother doesn't mind! What on earth did you do this time?" John's voice cracked as he grew even more confused. He doubts me... sad.

"The mother's dead, John. I've just solved her case. I'd think you would want to congratulate me on a good deed done!" I turn full attention, serious as I readjust the blanket over the baby.

John stares at me plaintively, then darts a look to my hands and the child. "You're giving it a home? Here?"

"For now, yes." I say.

John nods at me, "It's a boy, yes? What's his name?"

I chuckle at myself, "Yes, he's a boy. And... I thought it'd be quite a joke to name him-" But I am stopped by John's choke, "-Please don't tell me you tried to make a joke of an infant."

"No." My laugh stops, "I took liberty in naming him Hamish. As I recall you poked fun first." I look down at the infant and stroked his cheek.

"Actually, Hamish is a perfect name for a perfect little boy."


	4. John's Kidnapper

By now they feel like papercuts. All the bruises and lacerations I mean. Last night he was sane enough to knock me out first, whether it was accident or not. Today i'm not so lucky.

I stare up at him, not blankly, but without using one of my muscles, I haven't the will power. He, Moriarty, is efficiently bare and flushed with heat. His penis is small, giving exactation that he needs to bark louder to accomodate. And only minutes ago I had his nubby, piercing fingers moving to open me up.

"I'm going to use you." He says like he hasn't been doing that before.

Another minute passes, and he's pushing in. The head sucks in the tight outer ring, but the painful part wasn't that, it was him enjoying it and the noises of disagreement I made.

He thrusts in slow, checking my solemn face, and it's oddly intimate and sensual. He slides in and out slow with slurps and stickiness of skin. I'm glad it's me, Sherlock seems to abstract from sexuality to handle it properly.

A few more thrusts and I start thinking about him, I let his name slip out. "Sher-" The pain of rape subsiding.

Moriarty stops, smiles at me, "Should I kidnap him too, babe?"


	5. Leaving

When he sees the broken mug I threw shattered, scattered by the wall it hit. I see him, the real him. He's mad, but it's him. "That was my mug." He says low.

"You're leaving." I say halfheartedly. A tinge of guilt running through me.

"You left first." He says next. Then, looks gravely at the ground, eyes skimming slowly to my feet, waist to torso, to chin. He won't look at my eyes. He begins laughing harshly, head falling back into his hand.

"I had to." I reply.

His head snaps up at me, he goes silent. "You had to? HAD TO?! -" Then goes on to display multiple curses pointed at me and my blindness. I freeze.

"WE WERE FRIENDS AND YOU TORE ME- I, Sherlock, I loved you." The band on his finger relating to his new found love was forgotten as he came to bit my lip, not kiss. This was no kiss, it was almost kinky how he pressed up on his tiptoes, shoving his hands on my cheek and hooked in my trousers.

He doesn't love me. He's just confused. It's logical, with having a friend gone for so long then show up. He doesn't love me.

Yet I can't stop my hips from pressing urgently back.


	6. Pills

"This pill bottle. Sherlock, what does it mean?" He slammed it on the table.

"It's prescription, John." Sherlock spat back, not liking the taste of John thinking him a druggie.

"You need it? For what, are you sad? It's an SSRI." John pointed at the half full bottle.

"Yes, for anxiety, depression, attention problems, aggression..." He droned on.

John stood a moment, questioning his next move. "Are- Are, Sherlock, are you sad?"

The genius rolled his eyes. His expression went mono, then to a disgusted face, "Just stop guessing and leave me be."

Doctor Watson, found arguing with him was helpless, and forwarded his mind to the bottle. _It's an SSRI, for multiple cases, but expicitly labeled so for- _"God, Sherlock."

He never thought it a possibility. Sherlock shook his head as he dabbled with beakers.

"You're autistic?" John asked.

Sherlock set the glass down and waited a moment. He nods.

"Aspergers Syndrome."

It does fit him in a way, with his social incapabilities. "I'm sorry, I'll stop. Forgive-"

"No, John. Please just don't apologize, it's not you who should be asking forgiveness."

John frowned, looking off, then back again with vigor. "You've been taking crap from the police force, not to mention the media! You deserve an apology!"

Sherlock shakily breathes.


	7. Footsies

Sitting drunkily on the couch after one or two glasses of wine, (Or three or four), I start shifting my leg closer to John's whose leg is also propped on the coffee table. We giggle nonestop, the victory of the last case still lingering in the good mood.

John shifts his leg to, swallowing loudly as he does. The skin of his feet are warmer compared to mine when they touch. This makes me breath in and out rapidly in laughter.

John scolds me, "Je- *hickup* -sus, Sherlock! Your feet are freezing."

I respond to him with a curt hand on the leg, turning to face him in the awkward angle i'm in, but John's face changed colors by just a light hue.

"You're red." I deduce almost immediately. John's turked off voice doesn't reply, it's his calm one. "No, 'mnot."

I smile again, turning my head front and center. Then my feet go again, sliding in next to John's fidgety ones. It seems my hands had that idea to, slipping from holding my weight on a side, to searching blindly for John.

"Yeah- *hickup* - you are." I concure. My hand finally finds John's leg again, gripping his thigh hard until his hand comes to cover my own, "Fine, i'm blushing."


	8. Asexual

You're asexual. I get it.

But we've established something i'm fond of. We never initiate wierd, sexual and/or physical touch. Never have we tainted each other's mouth's with shared saliva. Yet we can hold each other.

Now that she's gone and you're back... It's better. Holding hands is always there, hugging is always acceptable, and it feels natural to run my hands through your hair. I think it's a coupled feeling of security when one of us sneaks in behind the other while they sleep, wrapping an arm and leg about their torso and knees.

I can only smile in hope when I see your face when we're like this. I believe you may be fond of it too. Do you like the holding? The being there for one another? Do you ever feel obliged to make up for the lack of contact? I hope you know I expect nothing in return. Just your sure hands in mine.

Mycroft sends sarcastic texts. Molly cried once. Hudson assumes we're together. Greg asked to see the ring. Anderson cornered you and said some 'things'. Greg also fired Anderson. But it's all fine now, none of the horrible good or bad matters...

Now that she's gone and you're back.


End file.
